The Kaldorei Schism
by feralhand
Summary: 'There was no justice, there was no right or wrong. There was conviction and crisis.' One druid's coming to terms. A character study told in reverse.
1. Chapter 1

**The Kaldorei Schism**

* * *

><p>The Majordomo fell. The Archdruid of Darnassus, Shan'do of the druids of the wild, Fandral Staghelm was dead.<p>

A sense of great decompression tore through the hearts of those kaldorei that had followed Staghelm into the Firelands. They came down upon their knees in the courtyard and were soundless in their despair, in their agony, as their ideals proved less than godly and glorious.

They that had slain Ragnaros' lieutenant today were heroes. The Guardians and the Avengers of Hyjal would celebrate this victory, and they would go on to confront the Fire Lord himself; but for the druids of the flame, the fighting was done.

The clattering of halberds and scythes upon the stone floor, as the weapons fell from Staghelm's abject agents, was louder in Bengal's ears than the cries of the triumphant company. She felt her hand upon her open mouth without understanding that she had brought it there. Tears smeared the soot from her cheeks beneath her shaking fingers.

Images of Teldrassil filled her mind. How had such a catastrophe of faith, of a people, come from one seedling? Now, after the blood was shed, they could trace the corruption back to Xavius, back to the exploitation of a father's unending grief and undying love for his child.

Once, the division between right and wrong had been so clear to her. This was no longer true. Darnassus, the sanctuary of the kaldorei, their _home_, was built upon the back of the Nightmare Lord. Druids, blinded by their hate of the orcs, had turned their back on Azeroth because it was easier to see a damned, beloved thing burn than to watch it struggle and suffer and slowly die.

Then, there was silence. It seemed to resonate in the come down of the defeated and in the indomitable spirit of the victorious. Cenarius moved through the courtyard.

Bengal threw herself upon the ground. She was unfit to look upon the Lord of the Forest. She covered her eyes and let the serenity (that always touched her when she was in his presence) battle with the rage she still felt for his death at the hands of the Warsong orcs. Their son, Grom Hellscream's son, was Warchief of the Horde now. Didn't Malfurion understand that? That murderous, monstrous orc's son lived and breathed upon a throne in Orgrimmar, and Valstann Staghelm was dead! His ghost had haunted his father since Ahn'Qiraj, and Fandral had gone to the fiery end of the world with the hope of reuniting with his son.

There was no justice, there was no right or wrong. There was conviction and crisis. There was war, and there were times like this, in the interlude of combat, when Bengal wanted for greener grasses and a way to encourage them to grow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Kaldorei Schism**

* * *

><p>Gentle whorls of wind flew through the forests of the Moonglade. Little blurs of violet and pink gave away the merrymaking young Kaldorei rushing over great roots and curving ferns. A keen and serpentine grace allowed them passage through even the thickest parts of the glade. They played at war, calling to each other in covert ways: a subtle hand gesture, a bird-like chirrup, a determined look and a nod of the head. Vaulting brambles with make-believe staves and engaging hanging vines in combat with wooden blades became like an art form—and one they in their young lives hadn't quite perfected. For as many pretend victories they picked up along the way, they collected twice as many lashes from branches, scrapes from scrambling over tree bark, and bites from hungry insects.<p>

For instance, one of their number picked a particularly bad log to leap, and she landed in the bite of a mess of vines. The resilience of youth was shown in her vigor to cut herself free even after face-planting in the dirt. After all, there were still monsters to fight! But the whoops and hollers of her playmates began to fade as she accomplished her task. When she stood, she was alone.

Nighttime never bothered a child of the stars, and she had never known any fear during her life in the Moonglade; but all the same, her heart quieted and her breath stilled. Maybe her imagination had truly run away with her, because all at once a sense of foreboding was pressing down on her shoulders. She dropped to one knee, assuming the posture she and the other students took during their tracking lessons. She listened, and listened, but there wasn't a sound to be heard—not the songs of crickets or frogs or birds, and not footfalls, nor breathing of any would-be threat.

With confidence, she exhaled and moved to sheath her wooden dagger inside the loop of her belt. She brushed off her silliness, peered at the stars to regain her bearings, took an enormous Nothing-Scares-Me step, and froze solid as a silver light crept passed the tree to her left.

It was _not _a wisp. It was _far _too large to be a wisp, but it was _far _too translucent and astral to be anything else. It made no noise as it moved through the forest, its great head swaying back and forth, its nose strumming the wildflower carpeted ground. And then, between one blossom and the next, it faced the elfin child. It looked upon her with great black pits for eyes, seeming neither offended nor terribly curious.

"Unorae!" The child dare not move. In her head, she begged her friends not to call out to her now. It was clear, though, that the game was done and they were worried about her absence. They continued to call for her, their voices coming closer and closer.

The spectral beast turned away and, as though slipping behind a curtain, disappeared in the middle of the clearing. At just that time, another young elf crashed into Unorae. A tidal wave of questions and demands rushed through her ears, but she wasn't quite listening.

* * *

><p>"A bear?" asked the teacher as he rewrapped his bow.<p>

In a much smaller voice, Unorae replied, "some sort of bear. One like a wisp." Filled with disorientation, she watched her friends and peers meander the paths to their homes. She remained on the bank of the lake, outside the dojo, with Oryeya, the leader of the hunting band. This man would have led her rescue should she have needed one—not because he was the most adept at tracking, because there were many just as good or better, but because the children trusted him the most.

For all the faith she had in him, Unorae worried as Oryeya's expression grew tense. She was well used to being chastised for acting without thought to her lessons, and going without the trust of her elders because she spent too much time daydreaming; but this time she had kept her sense and it wasn't her fault. If she couldn't be believed this time, she didn't know what she'd do.

"It would be best if you didn't tell anyone else about this," he said at last. Unorae was crushed.

"Shan'do, you are the one that told us to always watch and trust in our instincts. I know what I saw."

Oryeya shook his head. "There are things in this world that aren't for you to see. Put it out of your mind." At her side, he set a hand on her shoulder and squeezed to encourage her. "Come now, we'll walk together."

Reluctantly, Unorae bowed her head and fell into step with the hunter. He smiled at her and gave her a gentle, sportive nudge to hurry her along the path; but all the way, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease twisting in her stomach.

* * *

><p>Unorae broke her nails against the butt of her palm as her sword collided with Caonoa's, her sparing mate. The former's battle cry was part force, part ache. Caonoa's was pure spirit—a happy, energetic noise that absorbed the blow of the sword and stayed strong in her lungs as she threw off Unorae's blade and retaliated with twice the strength. Unorae parried and dodged before she could adjust her weight, and so her sword flew off in the opposite direction. Defeated, she collapsed on her backside and slicked her eyebrows back with the inside of her wrists.<p>

The tip of Caonoa's sword dropped toward the ground as she panted. She managed to breath the words, "well fought," and heft her sword into the sling on her back before slumping to the ground to collect herself. Unorae gave her a perfunctory nod, and although the gesture didn't look as respectful as it should have with her brow knitted in frustration and grief, there were no qualms about it.

The glistening Sentinel watching over the spars on the pavilion was even less interested in formalities. "There's no doubt you'll earn your place in the ceremonies this year, Thero'shan Caonoa." The simplicity of this compliment made it grand. This teacher wasn't known for nurturing her students' egos. It was no surprise to Unorae when the ornately decorated elder glanced at her briefly, bitterly, and moved on down the line without another word.

"Keep your head," Caonoa said, paying her sparring partner an impish grin. "If you hadn't tried to roll away, you could've turned it around. As soon as I put all my weight forward, I thought, 'oh no, she'll trip me!' I even brought my pommel down to catch your leg, didn't you see? Guess I worried for nothing!"

Unorae wasn't amused. She, and every one of her peers, knew she was not the brilliant tactician that these lessons sought to bring out in a person. Perpetual failure was like a snake devouring its own tail—the worse she performed, the less she wanted to learn, because it seemed like such a waste of time.

Scowling, she scraped herself off the ground and went to fetch her weapon.

* * *

><p>Dark trolls used poison-tipped arrows. Unorae knew this because her teachers told her so. She knew this because the muscles in her leg were wracking in agony, and despite the tourniquet she made of her jerkin, liquid torture was crawling over her hip and chewing at her abdomen. Her body quaked, and her trembling, blood washed hands couldn't grip and pull the leather any tighter. Fingers slipping, she threw back her head and cried out.<p>

In the silence her voice left behind, trollish war cries rose. The noise of an enemy crushing through Unorae's thick cocoon of ferns and long grasses put fear and fight back into her body, if only for a moment. From memory alone she knew where her sword had fallen beside her, and with both eyes still pinched shut against the pain, she reached for the blade. When she dared open her eyes, the forest was a patchy mess of shapes in highly contrasting colors. She lurched wildly away from the bright white stripe that was her own arm, and her own blade, as her sickened mind lost touch with the body to which it belonged.

The great axe of a murderous, territorial troll cut through the brush and embedded its head in a tree. The troll gave a fiery roar as he wrenched his weapon out of the wet bark, but as soon as he'd raised it over his head, it looked to Unorae as if a bolt of lightning shot down from the sky and enveloped her would-be undo-er. She shut her eyes and arced her back, trying to shove her hands behind her, to move her uncooperative body away from the fray. A din of savage roars and bloodcurdling shrieks filled her head. It was a great distraction, and for all her effort, she couldn't be sure if she'd even moved an inch since being spared the cut of the axe. Without noticing when it happened, Unorae was aware the ruckus had settled. Fighting persisted, but it was farther away.

Unorae tried again to face the world with open eyes. Slivers of inky darkness and blinding white moonlight made up her field of vision. In the midst of it, there appeared to be something triangular, something emanating damp heat, something like a nose, and a muzzle, and a slack mouth full of fangs dripping with blood. It drew close and loomed over her, and it was all the young Kaldorei could do to lift one arm. Her palm flattened against a bed of whiskers and fur as soft as snowflakes. She pressed her fingertips into the animal's face, and even she wasn't certain if her desire was for help or for an easier end.

It _hurt_. Her nerves assured her that her body had been torn asunder, that the poison had melted her through or the blade had separated her lower and upper halves. All she could hear was the impossible whistling and roaring of stars, crisscrossing her line of sight, crashing in the forest. How much of this was real, now? How much had she dreamt? From her first cry as a babe to her most recent, here, in a cradle of grass and blood—every moment of her decades she could separate unto its own star and fill the whole sky—but all this time now seemed so brief. All of her strength, more will than energy, couldn't move her body from where it had fallen. The pain ebbed, and all she felt was frustration and misery. For an immortal, an honest fear of death was a profound trauma.

It was a great treasure, too, this nightmare memory; and it was a privilege to cherish it a while longer.

When Unorae woke, her very first sight was that of two amber lights. A druid sat at her bedside, working restorative magic through her beaten body and wringing the bad blood from it. The backs of her fingers brushed the dried paint of a paw print pressed upon her forehead. "Thank you," she whispered.

The druid pressed his lips and bowed his mossy head. "You should thank _him_," he said, his gaze pointing across the room. With great effort, Unorae pushed herself up on her elbows and beheld the strangest sight. There, at the foot of the bed, on what had to be one of the uppermost levels of an ancient tree, was the very same snowy saber cat, no more than a large cub, that she'd seen in her deliria. "Thanks be to Elune for sending him to you, so that he would bring you here."

Of course, Unorae obliged with budding enthusiasm. "My friend, I'll see to it you're crafted the finest, most beautiful armor in all the world; and you should never need to journey or hunt alone again, for I owe you every sweet breath and sight and sound I'll have for the rest of my life! You have my undying gratitude." Somehow, in the course of these promises and plans, the bedridden elf had forgotten her recovery. Though she crawled to the end of the bed, she wilted as soon as she'd spoken that last word. Slowly, she lowered herself back onto the blanket but remained peering over the edge of the bed.

The saber cat was in a restful state, but one twitching ear acknowledged Unorae's endearment. It seemed they'd be celebrating life at a distance. Sharing the room was enough, for now, Unorae decided.

"Naked-faced and talking like that," the druid chuckled. He was doing his very best to allow the girl and the saber their moment, busying himself by shuffling herbs and dropping dried flakes into a pestle at the bedside, but it was for naught. "It takes a skilled Sentinel to run with a frostsaber. He won't be needing armor just yet."

Unorae's hand reflexively closed into a fist around what would have been the hilt of her sword and made a pained noise. For a moment, the druid was truly concerned. "Oh, Shan'do Nocca! I let it out of my sight again!" The elder Sentinel's command of never losing one's weapon echoed in her head. This time, she'd not simply let her grip slip in the midst of a spar. She couldn't get that sword back, now. Hand to her mouth in shame, she looked beseechingly at the druid and asked of him, as if he would have any idea, "do you think the Sentinels would forge me another?" It was a sad thought that while her peers were winning the honor of wielding moonglaives, she'd be begging for another training blade.

The druid stopped on his way to the open doorway just long enough to say, "you need not worry about it now. Gather your strength, Unorae."

She furrowed her brow, minutely offended that someone had told him her name and they had not been properly introduced. Circumstances being what they were, she couldn't hold it against him. "Wait. What is your name?"

"Theridran," he replied, and bowed, and pardoned himself away.

It took her forever, it felt, to pull herself to her feet and get to the door. By this time, the druid had made good his descent. A startlingly long way down, he stood in the grass, conferring quietly and pleasantly with another druid. In the next moment, their attention was taken to the north of the clearing.

Unorae dropped to her knees in the doorway. The saber cat behind her made a curious noise, but she couldn't spare him a glance. There, in her own little corner of the Moonglade, stood an Ancient! Cenarius!

* * *

><p>The lake Elune'ara became a dancing, shimmering star all its own during the frequent spring rain showers. The shore was a beautiful place to spend the sunset. It was serene, it was quiet, and it was one of the best places to think in all the Moonglade.<p>

"You mustn't follow me," Theridran gently warned with a brief look over his shoulder. His pace didn't drag and neither did Unorae's, even as she stooped to pluck a smooth, flat stone from the edge of the water.

"I'm not following you," she responded, most demurely avoiding to meet his gaze. A plucky smile overtook her face as soon as she'd turned to skip the rock across the lake. "I'm following Yevon." Quite a few many paces ahead, the frostsaber belonging to the name was lackadaisically checking trees.

Unwilling to accept the lie, the druid came to a stop. "Are you so eager to test Stormrage's patience again?"

Unorae stopped, too, and resigned herself to stand in the unhappy stare Theridran put upon her. "If only I could ask Cenarius—"

Theridran interrupted in a most brusque way, asking "do you think he would speak to you?"

"And why wouldn't he!" She clutched the loose fabric of her hanbok if only to have something into which she could dig her nails. "Am I not a Kaldorei, just the same as you, as Stormrage? If Elune loves Cenarius, then he should love us all."

"It isn't a question of love. You know that. Your place is with the Sentinels. They have as much need of you as you have of them."

"They have as much need of me as a fish has of wings. I _will _go. I _will _sit in the druids' circle. I will go every night until they'll have me."

Theridran shifted his walking stick into one hand and sighed. "No," he said, shaking his head. The idea of prefacing every lesson from there on with Malfurion throwing an obstinate young woman out of the circle was too depressing to consider for more than a moment. It was truly his only hope of studying, if he could get her to work against herself rather than against the circle. "Going to them now, just the same as before, there will be no difference in their reaction. If you are honestly committed to training as a druid, you must prove it."

"I've studied the marks," Unorae insisted, making the sign in the air between them. "I can bid brambles. Nature listens to me! But I can do nothing more without the guidance of a teacher."

"Even the most novice pledge can effect those things. No, you must do something more." He tapped a finger of his free hand to his beard thoughtfully. At last, he laughed to himself, and offered this idea. "It is a young druid's first great feat to commune with the Great Bear Spirit."

Unorae repeated the words, mystified. She'd come of age in the school of martial arts. Terms like _commune_ and _spirit_ were like parts of a foreign language. Although she was greatly concerned as to how she might accomplish this task, Unorae was more eager to know, "if I do this, Malfurion will surely take me on as a student?"

To spare her a broken heart, Theridran merely shrugged. No, no woman would ever sit in the druids' circle. All the same, though, a Sentinel wasn't going to earn the counsel of the Great Bear Spirit. At least a fool's errand would keep her busy while he attended his lessons.

* * *

><p>Unorae returned to Theridran threefold more self-assured than when they'd parted. He frowned into his cup of tea and agreed, at last, so slowly, under so many conditions, that he would, yes, tutor her.<p>

The Kaldorei fishermen on the dock were visibly upset by the ridiculous shriek that burst from the nearby tree-house. They may have gone and raised a fuss if not for the large frostsaber lounging in the doorway. As it was, fish scattered to the darkest, deepest parts of the lake, and inside the tree Unorae flung her arms around Theridran and promised and promised and promised she would be the very best student and he would have no regrets.

"But you must choose a totem," he reminded her. "And know that I am a druid of the grove. If you choose another, my instruction will be limited. I can tell you what I am told, but I won't be able to show you."

"Oh, Shan'do Theridran, must I disappoint you so early in my training?" In spite of these sad words, her tone was joyous. "The Great Bear Spirit revealed itself to me when I was young. It's only fitting that I follow the path of the claw. But don't worry," she urged him, wearing the broadest smile he had ever seen on her face, "we will find a way! Nature always finds a way!"

The conviction in her voice could not have belonged to her. She was not yet a druid—not truly—however, the faith she held in their outlook was unwavering even in its novelty. In this, she thought, she could surely, sincerely belong.


	3. Chapter 3

**Kaldorei Schism**

* * *

><p>Hyjal saw only glimpses of peacetimes. There were few periods in Bengal's long history where she recalled its air clean, its valleys lush, its inhabitants happy. It was a doomed place.<p>

She'd come to the mountains in new leathers. Three days in, her moccasins were black with soot and ash and the scent of woodsmoke had seeped permanently into her gear, hair, skin. She spent most of her pilgrimage searching for clean bodies of water. A routine grew from these frequent stops. She stooped, careful not to stir the silt, at the water's edge and filled her water pouches. As Rhysiart drank, she'd remove his armor and leave him to preen and wash his feathers, either in deeper waters or further downstream. With a rag of an old headband, she'd rinse all of their armor, and fastidiously clean her heavily engraved, elementium scythe. Then—if, and only if, there was further lull in their trek—Bengal would kneel in the water and scrub the grunge from her face until the tattooed tribute to the bear twins was perfectly visible upon her cheeks; and in stillness that belied her breaking heart, she'd contemplate the elf reflected in the glittering Hyjal waters.

They'd suit up again in funerary silence. Bengal had long since ceased asking the cruel, sorrowful question that burned in her chest every time Rhysiart lowered his head to be fit with his faceplate. Some small part of her was suspicious that he was waiting for her resolve to fracture, for her to tell him they were going far away from all of this strife. She had great respect for him, as a friend, as a guardian, as a teacher; and she had to trust him to conduct his own destiny. Even so, in her heart of hearts, she longed for him to abandon her. Maybe not until the very last moment, so she would never be forced to doubt her fortitude to continue upon the path, but soon, she wanted for him to return home. It was possible that is why he stayed by her side, even as the road spit with fire and bloomed with smoke. She could not be allowed to forget what she came here to do. This was not the rash decision of a feral, vengeful mind. At least, that's what Bengal told herself.

She stopped on the long-traveled road as it crested the hills over the Shrine of Goldrinn. The hippogryph paused just two of his long, graceful strides ahead of her. He tilted his regal head and observed tears spilling from the druid's lambent, silver eyes. Seven thousand years, and still, silver eyes.

"Cenarius will stop him," she said in muted, quavering tones, as if trying to convince herself of this end. "If anyone can, it will be Cenarius."

The opportunity to contend the pilgrimage presented itself. Rhysiart took it up for the first time, and did so without earnest, without mirth. "The world rallies around him. The Avengers and the Guardians of Hyjal, and the Ancients awakening . . . And Arch Druid Stormrage and his Cenarion Circle. In these short days, we have come to stand at the precipice of legend." He turned, unabashed by the winds as they pushed up the cliff and combed through his feathers, and watched the road below twist through the valley. The way grew darker, thicker with decay all the time, until it was lost in the Firelands. "I have no doubt this world will be returned to its former prosperity, in time; just as the Emerald Dream will be."

"I do not deserve an ally such as you. Rhysiart, you are too wise for this foolishness."

"Wisdom does not effect imperviousness to tragedy, or war. I regret to say nothing does."

The elf sucked in a breath to calm her spirit. It did no such thing, but it was a start. It was apparent now that once they moved down the mountain, there would be no turning back. If she meant to say something to him, this would be her very last chance. She did not wish her fate on him, but it was clear to her now that he did not wish it on her, either. He could not free her of _her _nightmare, but he could prevent her from going through it alone.

Just one question seemed appropriate. "My dear friend," she said, inwardly startled by the steadiness of her own voice, "to Staghelm's side, through the eye of fire, no doubt to Elune _if _she will still have us when we are broken—will you go with me?"

The hippogryph's turn was wide and slow. His head drooped with the slight affect of disappointment in this final choice, but he was no less resolute. "Bengal . . ." He paused briefly and began again, "Unorae Greylake. We go together."

"For the balance."

There was no better avatar for this grand trial of Azeroth than Fandral Staghelm himself. He had once wielded the powers of the balance, the wrath of Elune, the fury of the stars. He was not rewarded. All that was precious to him was stolen away by the capricious _balance_ of a world at war. This allegiance with the Fire Lord wouldn't bring his son back to life, but it would settle a debt of guilt long since owed.

Balance, by its very nature, requires a sense of antagony as much as it requires a sense of philanthropy. Of this era, the history books would say, _So it was, from these dark circumstances, Goldrinn, Avianna, Malorne, Aessina, Cenarius, and the champion Malfurion Stormrage came back to our world, and the druids and the heroes of Azeroth all knew the essence of righteousness._

It had been a happy privilege to fight on that side of the line for so long, but now deep loyalties and an outlook she could not casually forsake pulled Bengal across to the _other_ side of the balance.

It was a place she had never before been.

This place was full of fire.

The incantation of the oath of flame was a simple thing to say. These were small, easy words whose grand, corrupt sum hid inside of double meanings and dark connotations. Like a hangnail stripping skin, heat crawled into her fingertips, slithered through her veins, and carved fire in her body. The blood of her transformation ran freely. The longer the fire burned, the stronger she found her voice. Small, easy words.

The flesh of the hippogryph's beak blistered, cracked, fell away for the white hot cartilage and bone beneath it. Fetid soot licked the tips of his feathers until his plumage was wholly consumed in Ragnoros' fire. He may have been tortured by his flame-bondage, but he did not show it.

Memories of modest war rallies in the cities of old flitted through Bengal's mind. In her periphery, many fellow druids stood with her, but she did not feel them her brothers and sisters in arms. Of Fandral, lording over his new druidic order, she did not feel grateful, as one should have been for a dauntless commander in dire times.

But for every one of Hellscream's orcs' throats crushed in her feral jaws, for every Sin'dorei flayed of flesh and arcane bond, and for every strike, lash, and sting of pain inflicted upon her burning body, Bengal knew the _essence of righteousness_, too


End file.
